


The Rose and Thorn

by FourCatProductions



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: BDSM, Bisexuality, Body Modification, Deaf Character, Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, No Dragonborn, Original Character(s), Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sex Club, Shameless Smut, The Porn Is the Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-09 10:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18915025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: A social club for those with exotic appetites meets a most unusual guild, and a mutually beneficial arrangement is struck, taking all involved down an unexpected road.





	1. A Promise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raunchyandpaunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raunchyandpaunchy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Edged Lexicon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758052) by [raunchyandpaunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raunchyandpaunchy/pseuds/raunchyandpaunchy). 



> A gift for raunchyandpaunchy, whose delightfully smutty story The Edged Lexicon never fails to entertain and inspire me. If you haven't read it, you're missing out. Nadine Rielle, Gasha, and The Sanctum belong to her; the remaining original characters and the House of the Rose and Thorn are mine.
> 
> Warnings and tags for individual acts/kinks will be posted on a chapter-by-chapter basis, so as not to clog up the tags.

Fredas blows in on a cool spring wind, and with it, rain. Nazir listens to it drum on the roof of what was once Honningbrew Meadery, glad to have somewhere to be. His cloak and boots are still drying out by the hearth, the _plip-plip-plip_ of water hitting stone hushed in the background.

“Sir,” Ingun says, draping an arm around his neck. Everyone else is downstairs, having already eaten, but he’d come late. She’d stayed behind to curl up in his lap, wearing nothing but her collar, and he strokes her bare thigh while she feeds him pieces of fruit and cheese from his plate. “May I speak freely?”

“Go ahead.” Nazir is fond of all of them, his guildmates in pleasure and pain, but out of the women he had a soft spot for Ingun, her clever, wicked mind and exquisite appetites, the dark heart of her. She holds another slice of apple to his lips, eyes sparking with interest when he nips at her fingers.

“Soon I’ll have been here for a year.”

“Has it been that long already?”

“Yes sir. And as I recall, you promised me something to commemorate the occasion.” She’s looking at him expectantly, so he plays simple for the moment, stone-faced until she frowns, a pout forming on her pretty lips. “Scarification! Surely you remember.”

“Relax, girl. Of course I do.” He plucks a grape from the bunch and feeds it to her; she nestles against him once more, placated. “But finding an artist who’s gifted in both the craft and keeping secrets is no easy task. Give it time.”

“I’m also open to branding,” Ingun says. Nazir chuckles and pinches her nipple, digging his nails in cruelly until she hisses, her eyes glazing over.

“I’ll find someone when the time comes. It just has to be the right someone.” He lets go, stroking the abused flesh with gentle fingers. “I can’t have just anyone making permanent alterations to my pet, now can I?”

“No, Sir.” Mollified for the time being, she takes another grape from his hand. “I trust your judgement.” A strange thing to say to an assassin, perhaps, but it’s a trust that’s been built over months of work, and one he has no intention of violating. He prefers to keep his personal and professional lives separate, and in any case, he’s never been one for playing with his food – that sort of thing is more Astrid’s specialty. He pats her flank.

“It’ll be well worth the wait. I’ll see to that.”

He’s not lying to her. He has no reason to lie to her. But the fact remains that he has no idea how much longer that wait is going to be, and he’s still thinking about it a week later, even as the body beneath him goes limp, its last remaining spark of life winking out. Hardly the most thrilling, or challenging, of jobs, but their client wanted it to appear that Lord Faustin had died in his sleep, and in either case, a pillow over the face made for much easier clean-up than a knife to the throat. The pillow is set aside, and he closes the dead man’s eyes, which had gone blank and glassy in the wide spill of moonlight across the bed. He didn’t keep live-in servants, Lord Faustin. Nobody would discover him until well into morning.

Ingun is starting to get impatient. He’d expected as much, but for once, he takes no delight in denying her. Finding someone suited to the task at hand, someone capable of both the level of discretion and artistry he requires, has proven almost impossible at this point. If Skyrim houses anyone of sufficient talent, they’d gone to great pains to stay hidden. He rolls the body onto its side, facing away from the door. A stray beam of silver falls across the lord’s shoulder, illuminating a pair of eyes.

Nazir’s breath comes out as a slow exhale, a frisson of something like anticipation in his chest. The eyes stare up at him. Carefully, he rolls the body onto its stomach, where he can peel the sheets down to the man’s waist, and there she is – Dibella Herself. She lounges from his shoulder to his hip, half-clad in deep red robes with one breast bared and roses twined in her golden hair. An abstract wash of color ripples behind her. Each line is exquisite in its own right, but her face is a masterpiece – her proud chin and arched nose, her dimples, the sly pink bud of her mouth and the green eyes peering out at him, coy now rather than startled, so lifelike that he nearly forgets he’s staring at a corpse’s tattoo. He almost wishes he could draw. It seems a shame, for a thing of such beauty to be lost to the unforgiving earth. He’s already stayed too long, but he lingers a moment longer, memorizing every last detail before he covers it up and slips away through the window, out into the warm, welcoming night. It isn’t until he’s well away from Riften and back inside the Brotherhood Sanctuary that he allows himself any real satisfaction, and Astrid gives him a curious look while she coaxes the embers in the hearth back to life. It’s early, the kitchen still cool and dim as an empty grave. They’re the only ones awake.

“You look pleased with yourself.”

“Not as pleased as Ingun will be,” he tells her, and she chuckles, hanging the kettle over the open flame.

“Finally found someone, did you?”

“Nearly. Shame our mutual acquaintance expired before I could get a name out of him.”

“That is a shame,” Astrid agrees, and her mouth curls up at the corner. “Ah well. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

 

He has an artist, but not a name, and very few places to start looking. His contacts are masters of murder and espionage, not arts of the flesh, and he spends the next few days puzzling over the matter in alternating fits of curiosity and frustration. In the end, though, it’s the Sanctum’s newest members who provide him with a solution.

“Sir, look!” Nadine bounds up to him, flushed and beaming with Gwilin in tow. Nazir glances over, nods while he finishes undoing the ties on his boots. Adorable as the pair of them are, he needs a drink and a bath before any sort of play, and he’s about to excuse himself when she pulls her tunic up. “What do you think?” A stalk of nightshade curves along her side, flowering on her ribs. “Gwilin got something done too,” she adds, and Gwilin nods, the ring in the tip of his ear shining gold.

“Lovely,” Nazir murmurs, leaning in for a closer look. Her tattoo is fresh, judging by the raised skin and faint redness that remains, and the quality is fine; not as flawless as Dibella, but certainly beautiful. He traces his finger just around the edge, where her side dips, and she shivers. “When did you get this done?”

“Just last week,” Nadine says, a little breathless. She’s new to all of this, Nadine, wide-eyed and still at the stage where even the slightest touch turns her into wet clay, begging to be molded. But as charming as that tendency is, Nazir isn’t about to let himself be distracted. Not when he’s this close.

“And where did you go?”

“The Maker’s Mark, in Riften. The owner’s name is Gasha,” she adds helpfully, blush deepening. “She’s _very_ good.”

 _Very good indeed,_ Nazir notes, and decides he’ll have to investigate the owner more thoroughly at a later date. He straightens up, smiles at them both. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Are you going to get a tattoo, Sir?” Gwilin asks.

Nazir glances across the room to where Ingun stands chatting with Vex, toying with the ring on her collar. She catches his eye and shoots him an absolutely filthy look in return, eyes half-lidded and full of heat. His cock twitches.

“Not quite,” he says.

 

The Maker’s Mark turns out to be a cozy little shop nestled at the edge of Riften’s marketplace, and Gasha a tall, no-nonsense Orc with a friendly smile and an excess of facial piercings. Nazir can see why Nadine took a liking to her. She exerts a calm, natural authority that no amount of training or posturing can manifest, and her biceps swell as she sorts through her tools, the tendons in her forearms flexing.

“Dibella, huh?” Something astringent fills the air when she dunks them in the basin, blueish liquid foaming around her wrists. Voices drift through the window, interrupted by the crackle and belch of the blacksmith’s forge down the street. “Most folks around here worship Mara, if they worship at all.”

“I’m not concerned with the man’s religious practices,” Nazir says, leaning against the counter. “I just want to know who the artist is.”

“And you think I’d know who did it because…”

“I don’t see any other parlors in Riften, do you?”

Gasha grunts, drying off a wicked-looking implement with a clean rag. Nazir watches her hands, deft and precise despite their size, and wonders if he should have Vex do a little reconnaissance next time she’s in Riften. “Fair enough.” She sets it aside and reaches for the next. “What did it look like?”

“It wasn’t the design so much as the technique,” Nazir says. “I know a little about art, and the kind of talent I saw is exceedingly rare.” There hadn’t been much else to distinguish it, he realizes, and tries to think of something else that stood out. “She had roses in her hair.”

“Not my work,” Gasha says after a moment, and Nazir is on the verge of being very irritated indeed when she adds, “But I know who did it.”

“You do,” Nazir says. Hiding his emotions is second nature after so many years in his line of work, where anything but a mask is a liability, but he still takes care to infuse his voice with the right amount of bland curiosity. Beneath his skin, his blood thrums. His prey is close. Gasha finishes cleaning her tolls and begins to arrange them on a silver tray, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“They’re selective about their clients, you know,” she says. “Even I sent you to them, there’s no guarantee they’d take you on.”

“Let me worry about that part.”

Gasha eyes him a moment longer, then relents, shrugging and wiping her hands on her apron. “Fine. Wait here.”

The shop is quiet and well-maintained, a welcome relief from the cramped bustle of the city streets. Nazir is content to sit on the stool by the counter until she returns and presses something into his hand. It’s a square of unusual parchment, stiff and cream-colored, no bigger than his palm, and she’d drawn a symbol on the back that means nothing to him, a looping, intricate knot of thorny vines with a rose blooming in their center.

“Take this to Solitude,” she says. “Go to the Garden District and find the house with the green door. When you do, show them that card and say you want to speak with Solana Secunia. What happens after that is none of my business. We clear?”

“Perfectly.” Nazir tucks it away, close to his heart where he won’t lose it, then plucks a handful of septims from his purse and lays them on the counter, each one gleaming and gold. “For your help.”

The suspicion scrawled all over Gasha’s face doesn’t vanish, but the coin does, swept into the pocket of her apron. “I don’t wanna know what all that was about, do I?”

“Probably not,” Nazir agrees. “Have a pleasant rest of your day.”

“Get out before my next appointment comes,” Gasha says, but her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile. Nazir decides he likes her.

He has time to kill, so he takes a stroll through the market and comes to rest at the bridge that overlooks the canals, water twisting sluggishly below. It’s the first Fredas that he’s been absent from the Sanctum in some time, and his trip to Solitude will guarantee a second and third, but he’s sure Ingun will forgive him – assuming he doesn’t come back empty-handed. He draws his hood low over his face and melts back into the crowd, heading for the Bee and Barb. He’s already paid up for the night, and one of Talen-Jei’s specialty brews sounds like exactly what he needs, along with a bowl of venison stew. He’s about to spend the next two weeks traveling. Might as well indulge while he has the chance.

The inn is busy – it’s always busy – and after Keerava pockets his coin and ladles out his dinner, he takes the tray and his drink and retreats up to the attic room he’d rented, away from the crush of bodies and accompanying racket. Up here it’s quiet, the noise from below little more than a hum against the floorboards, and he composes a letter to Astrid while he eats, the sun’s dying rays slanted across his borrowed desk.

_Astrid,_

_Traveling to Solitude to investigate a lead. Sanctum business. Will try to return within the month. If you have need of me, send a courier and I’ll cut my trip short. The newest batch of contracts are on your desk._

_Faithfully,_

_Nazir al-Satakalaam_

Satisfied, he sits back and takes a long drink of his Cliff Racer, brandy and flin smooth on his tongue while the firewine scorches its way down his throat on their heels. When he’s done, he may allow himself a second, though he rarely drinks these days. Why not?

He’s celebrating.

 

Solitude’s Garden District sprawls to the west of the Blue Palace, a labyrinthine marvel of architecture and engineering. Moss-garbed aqueducts arc over red-tiled roofs and curve past dizzying spires, delivering water to the plague of flora that covers every available surface. Supposedly it’s one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city, but as far as Nazir can tell, it belongs to the flowers. Here stalks of lavender grow as tall as a man, and bulbous deathbell drip from balcony after balcony, mingling with morning glories in shades of deep purple and pale blue; here ivy and creep cluster run rampant up the sides of buildings and strangle pillars like parasitic lace, red and green and gold; and here there are gardens of every shape and size, in planters and pots and on street corners and plots of land, boasting species of flower Nazir has never seen and doesn’t care to name. The air is heavy here, redolent with the damp scent of earth and pollen. He pulls his scarf over his nose and mouth, but his eyes are already watering.

The journey had been as pleasant as one could reasonably expect from two weeks spent in the back of a carriage, muscles gone numb and the twin scents of sweat and horseshit clinging to his clothes, but Nazir has never been overly fond of Solitude. Its size affords him anonymity, but it’s still full of puffed-up popinjays, Imperial bootlickers, and worst of all, bards. Nonetheless, upon his arrival, he had bathed, oiled his beard and scalp, and gotten a decent night’s sleep, then put on his finest clothes and left the inn the following morning, resplendent in purple. A few people eye him speculatively, but most pay him no mind. Solitude is home to the largest port in Skyrim, and the Garden District is full of artist collectives and guilds of various specialty. To them, he’s simply one more wealthy patron, in search of something more. He spends the better part of the morning wandering the streets, which seem to intersect at random and half of which are unmarked, and twice he gets lost and has to backtrack, swearing under his breath. But poor city planning or not, he’s intent on finding his mark, and eventually a little side street yields a winding path lined with red and white roses, each one as big as a head of cabbage. At its end stands the green door.

Gasha had described it as a house, but the building in front of him towers three stories high, a stately stone manor with stained-glass windows and a garden of sunrise roses out front, their delicate perfume wafting past. It stands alone, this house, surrounded by neat green hedges on three sides, and when Nazir looks closer, he sees the same symbol Gasha had given him branded into the doorknob. Satisfied, he raises his fist and knocks. There’s no answer. He waits, then tries a second time, followed by a third. Still nothing. He’s contemplating whether or not to come back later – or break in – when the faint tread of footsteps catches his ear, and the door opens.

“Welcome, brother,” the man on the other side of the door says, and Nazir is not the sort of person who enjoys surprises, but this time it’s a welcome one, to see home reflected back at him. He’s older, this Yokudan, heavyset and handsome with close-cropped hair and a neat silver beard. A tiny pair of spectacles sits at the tip of his crooked nose, and when he smiles his teeth shine against his deep brown skin. “What brings you to our door?”

Nazir produces the square of parchment. “An acquaintance referred me here. I’m looking for Solana Secunia.”

The man takes it, adjusting his spectacles as he flips it over, then nods and tucks it into the pocket of his vest. “Follow me.”

Whatever expectations Nazir had about the interior of the manor are laid to waste as soon as he steps over the threshold. It’s as messy and vibrant as the exterior is nondescript, rugs and pillows and shoes scattered all over the enormous foyer, and artwork hangs on the walls or sits propped against cabinets or has been left on the table to dry with seemingly no rhyme or reason to its arrangement. Incense burns somewhere in the background, heavy and floral. He swears he hears wind chimes.

Casimir al-Elinhir – for he’d introduced himself on the way in – leads him through an entryway decorated with gauzy curtains and into a neat sitting room, free from clutter or excess. All the furniture is made of wood so dark it’s nearly black, off-set by woven tapestries in various shades of green and a cream-colored rug. Nazir sits in the proffered chair, glad to be off his feet for the moment, and Casimir disappears through the curtains again, only to return a few minutes later with an apologetic expression.

“Solana is finishing up with a client. She should be in shortly.”

Nazir bows his head in thanks, and Casimir nods and goes away again, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Minutes pass. For lack of anything else to look at, he finds himself staring at the tapestry hanging on the opposite wall, made up of pale green, emerald and viridian threads all blending together. His vision blurs, and a spriggan emerges, hidden among the dappled leaves. He blinks. The image vanishes.

“A fascinating piece, isn’t it?”

The voice is throaty and warm and he feels it like a physical caress, a hand down his spine. He tears his eyes from the tapestry to see a woman robed in stars, a smile on her full pink lips.

“Welcome,” she says, “to the Rose and Thorn.”


	2. An Introduction

Solana Secunia is tall – tall for a Nibenese Imperial, taller than Nazir – with hair so black it’s nearly blue and skin a few shades lighter than his own, like the sands of the Alik’r Deserts at night. Gold studs wink in her earlobes and nose, another flashing in her tongue whenever she speaks. Her robe is the same color as her hair and patterned with hundreds of tiny, shimmering stars, like she’d plucked out a section of the sky and wrapped herself in it. He catches a glimpse of a plush thigh whenever she moves, silk shushing around her.

“Casimir tells me you’ve been looking for me,” she says, tucking her bare feet beneath her as she curls up in the armchair opposite him, teacup in hand. She’d offered him some, but he’d declined. It’s an odd pose for someone so dignified, and even odder that it doesn’t take away from her dignity in the slightest. If anything, it reminds him whose domain he’s entered.

“I have,” he says. “Consider me an admirer of your work.”

“And yet this is our first meeting.”

“Call it a newfound appreciation. May I ask you something?”

“You may.”

“What exactly is this place? It’s… unusual for a Guild Hall.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Solana’s mouth. “I suppose it is, isn’t it?” She takes a sip of her tea, long brown fingers curved around her cup. She’s wearing rings on nearly every finger, sapphire and amethyst and one with a ruby the size of a slaughterfish egg. “We’re somewhere between a guild, a collective, and a chapel. I prefer to think of it as a house of transformation, myself. Mind, body, and soul.”

It should sound ridiculous. It doesn’t. The way she speaks carries weight, like she’s letting him in on something both private and profound, and there’s a glow to her amber eyes as she takes him in, studying him from head to toe. He smooths his beard, gaze lingering on the spot where her robe is starting to slide off her shoulder.

“The Rose and Thorn. An interesting choice for a name.”

“I believe both pleasure and pain are necessary for growth,” Solana says lightly, and finishes her tea. “Now, a question for you.”

“Of course.”

“Our clientele is _highly_ exclusive.” One polished fingernail taps the arm of the chair for emphasis. “We reject more people than we accept, and most of our business is garnered through word of mouth. Whispers in the ears of those who can afford our services, so to speak. And yet, here you are, with my name on your lips but no knowledge of this place.” The words are stern, but her tone isn’t. She sounds… curious. Almost excited. “So, Nazir, tell me. How _did_ you find us?”

Nazir deliberates. Then, he smiles.

“I murdered a man with a tattoo of Dibella on his back,” he says. “It was for business reasons, I assure you.” She doesn’t flinch, but he can sense a sudden stillness in her, quick dark eyes reevaluating him. He leans in, and is pleased to see her do the same. “I’m only interested in the very best, Mistress Secunia, and ‘the best’ appears to be here. All I ask is that you don’t waste my time.” His coinpurse hits the table with a resounding thud, fatted and bulging at the seams. “I certainly have no intention of wasting yours.”

It starts slowly. Solana stares at the purse sitting between them, and a tremor runs through her. At first he thinks it might be fear, until her shoulders start to shake and she gives in and _laughs,_ loud and unflattering and deeply, helplessly amused.

“No, my friend,” she says once she’s composed herself, patting at her eyes with a lace kerchief. “No, I won’t waste your time. Although I do have to say, I’m a bit miffed. Lord Faustin was some of my finest work.”

“It’s a shame,” Nazir agrees. “Alas, duty trumps artistry in my line of work.”

“So I see.” Solana uncurls, hefting the coinpurse, and her sleeves slide down to her forearms. Nazir looks again, more closely this time, and he knows then with absolute certainty that he’s come to the right place.

“Do you mind?”

Solana smiles and sets the purse down, extending her hands so he can see. “Lovely, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Nazir says, examining the flowers etched into her skin. The lines are thin and white as spidersilk, invisible from a distance, but up close there are roses blossoming on the backs of her hands and climbing up her arms, brought to life with sharp, fluid precision. He doesn’t touch, though he’s tempted, just to see what they feel like. “In fact, that’s what I came here for.”

“Ah,” Solana says, and then the coinpurse is back, heavy in his hands. While he’s still mired in confusion, she leans towards the curtains and calls out, “Indrele!”

A flurry of footsteps sounds in the hall. A Dunmer comes bustling in a few seconds later, her arms full of canvas and a harried expression on her face. “Yes?” She’s small and plainly dressed, her dark hair pulled into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck, and she barely spares Nazir a glance, brows furrowed in impatience. Solana beams.

“Indrele, darling, take Nazir to see your brother. He’s looking to get a scarification done.”

“Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something time-sensitive – “

“Nazir, would you mind stepping into the hall? Indrele will be along in just a moment.”

Nazir excuses himself to the foyer, where he can hear snatches of whispered conversation and nothing more. Whatever Solana says to Indrele seems to have made an impression, because she swoops out of the room, her mouth pinched in annoyance, and beckons.

“Nazir, was it? Follow me.”

She takes off at a brisk walk, faster than he anticipated for someone her size, and he glances over his shoulder before he goes after her. Solana is watching them. She gives him a little smile, almost knowing, and then the curtains fall back into place, sweeping her from his view.

Indrele is clearly eager to get this over with. She leads him up a flight of stone stairs and down a long corridor with dark beams crisscrossing the vaulted ceiling, the hem of her dress rustling against the wine-colored runners. Up here, beyond the quiet of the entryway, it’s lively chaos. Half the doors are open, and Nazir catches a glimpse as he passes each one: a group of apprentices painting furiously while two of their number play flute and drums; another group rendering the figure of the nude woman at the center of the room in charcoal on their canvases; practice tattoos on preserved pigskin and cowhide and kits with calipers and needles next to empty basins, bandages and jars of salve; and what looked like an apprentice helping a client select jewelry from a display case. It’s loud and colorful and the flute is making his teeth itch, but he sets his jaw and tunes it out. They turn left, and she takes him to a door all the way at the end of the hall, stern in a shadowy alcove. It’s closed, but she doesn’t bother to knock. Just turns the knob and breezes in, slippers whispering on the stone.

At first glance, it looks more like a workshop than an artist’s salon. There’s no decoration on the walls, no rugs or tapestries or frills; it’s sober and plain and utterly utilitarian, but not neat. There are books piled on stools and falling out of the overstuffed shelf in the corner, and scrolls pile on counters amid inkwells and scattered supplies like snowdrifts. The only untouched space is the padded table next to the far wall, a tray of gleaming tools mounted next to it along with a basin, salves and bandages. Unlike the other rooms he’d seen, this one has no windows to let the sunlight in, and a fire blazes in the hearth even though the day is warm. Nazir’s so busy taking it all in that he barely registers the figure hunched over the desk until Indrele taps it on the shoulder.

“Az,” she says, and her hands are darting to and fro, forming symbols Nazir doesn’t recognize, “there’s a client here for you.” The figure gestures impatiently, one-handed, and she frowns and signs something else, faster this time. Its shoulders slump, and then it pushes its chair back, legs scraping the floor, and Nazir finds a pair of red eyes glaring directly at him.

“Nazir, my brother Azarath,” Indrele says, and signs something. “Az, Nazir. He’s looking to get some work done.”

Azarath narrows his eyes, unimpressed. He’s short and stocky for a Dunmer, thick arms folded across a powerful chest, and he has the same dove-grey skin and dark hair as his sister. His beard is unkempt, his hair coming out of its tie, and his clothes look like he’s been sleeping in them, probably at his desk. A scar runs from his cheek to the corner of his upper lip, giving his face a lopsided slant. He gives Nazir a quick once-over, dismissive, then signs something at his sister.

“He wants to know what you want.”

Straight to the point, then. Nazir approves. “I’m part of an organization for those with… unconventional appetites,” he says, and Indrele’s fingers fly, sketching out his words. “One of our members has a long-standing interest in scarification. I was hoping you might be willing to oblige her.”

A smirk tugs at Azarath’s mouth, and he signs something to Indrele, who flushes violet all the way to her hairline. “I am _not_ repeating that,” she hisses. He rolls his eyes and signs something else, more deliberately this time. Indrele sniffs, but looks back at Nazir. “He has a client coming in shortly. You can talk more afterwards.”

“Busy day?”

“It always is,” Indrele says, and scoops up her papers from the desk. “And as I told Solana, I actually am in the middle of something, so you’ll have to excuse me. I’m sure the two of you can sort yourselves out from here.”

“Now, hold on,” Nazir starts, but it’s already too late. The door slams behind her, leaving the two of them to stare blankly at one another until Azarath exhales through his nose and snatches up a quill and scrap of blank parchment from his desk. He scribbles something down, then thrusts it at Nazir. In cramped, spidery letters, he’d written _I can read lips._

“You can,” Nazir says. Azarath takes the paper back.

 _I don’t like to. Signing is easier._ This is accompanied by another one of those flat glares, like Nazir’s inability to do so is a personal insult. Nazir, however, finds himself distracted by the scroll spread across the desk behind Azarath. He motions to it.

“May I see?”

Azarath gives him a deeply suspicious look, but moves aside. The design sketched out there is a marvel of clean, strong lines, depicting Zenithar’s anvil and hammer, surrounded by coin and a wreath of dragon’s tongue. Nazir doesn’t touch, but he admires, hands folded behind his back. “Beautiful work,” he says, and Azarath’s quill scribbles once more.

_I know._

Nazir can’t help it. He laughs, and the ghost of a smile flits across Azarath’s lips. A tentative knock sounds on the door.

“If there are no objections,” Nazir says, still holding his gaze, “I’d like to stay and observe.”

Azarath jerks his head toward the chair beside the workbench, which is as close to a ‘yes’ as Nazir’s likely to get. Grinning, Nazir sits, watching Azarath stalk off to answer the door. Suddenly, he’s glad he came after all. The day is shaping up to be very interesting indeed.

 

Azarath’s client is a middle-aged Imperial with greying hair at his temples and fine clothes, named Titus Something-or-Other; a merchant who wants to demonstrate his devotion in thanks for all Zenithar has seen fit to grant him, and is more than happy to let Nazir observe the process. He spends the better part of his session explaining the role and ritual of scarification in Nibenese culture while Azarath cuts the design into his shoulder blade and packs the wound before bandaging it up and writing out a list of instructions for proper care. Nazir has studied things like this in passing, tattoos, scarification, branding and the like, but he’s never seen one done before. It’s fascinating, and he says as much while Azarath is cleaning the blood off his tools.

“The work you did on your Guild Mistress is similar to what I’m looking for,” he hedges, making sure to shape each word clearly. Azarath’s hands don’t stop moving, the liquid in the basin gone murky, but he’s still watching Nazir’s lips. “Just nightshade and deathbell instead of roses. You’d be compensated fairly, of course,” he adds when there’s no response. “Plus any other accommodations you might need.”

Azarath finishes cleaning his tools. Sets them aside on the tray, dries his hands. This time, the note he writes is much longer.

_The only reason you’re here is because Solana insisted. She apparently thinks I’ll find you interesting. I have clients booked solid until near-Hearthfire, so if you don’t want me to consider this whole thing an enormous waste of my time, tell me what’s so interesting about you, or get out._

Nazir looks back at him. “Odd way of doing business.”

_I can afford to do business however I want. I’ve turned down richer and more powerful clients than you._

“Why?”

_They bored me._

“Oh, well then. By all means,” Nazir says, and undoes the clasp on his cloak, letting it slither free of his shoulders. “I’ll tell you how I found my way to your little establishment, if you think it’ll hold your attention.”

Azarath nods.

“I killed a man Mistress Secunia had previously tattooed.” The laces on his tunic are next, and he unties them so that the collar falls open, revealing the ugly, knotted scar bisecting his collarbone. “That’s what I do for a living. I kill people, discreetly, for large sums of money. As you can imagine, the fact that I’m still alive means I’m very good at it.” He strips his tunic away, and there they are, the myriad scars wandering across the landscape of his body like weary travelers – the burn on his ribs that never healed right, the starburst above his navel where his brother ran him through, the marks from arrows and swords and claws and teeth and a dozen other things that had tried and failed to put him down. “In my free time, I associate with a variety of fascinating people, and one of them wants to be held down and permanently marked while she pretends not to like it. Now, would you like my money, or should I put my shirt back on?”

Azarath’s expression barely changes while Nazir’s speaking, but when he approaches it’s with caution, like Nazir is a fawn, ready to flee if he makes one wrong move. His eyes flick to Nazir’s face, and one blunt finger reaches out, tracing the scar that runs diagonally across his chest, then trails down, coming to rest on the one just above his navel. Nazir wears his scars as many things – as badges of honor, as lessons learned, as a warning – but nobody has ever touched them with anything resembling reverence, the way Azarath is doing now. His hand is warm. Nazir is almost disappointed when it falls away. At least, until Azarath thrusts another scrap of paper at him.

_I don’t work cheap._

“That won’t be a problem,” Nazir says, and mostly succeeds in keeping the grin off his face. Mostly.

They agree on a month from now, so there’s plenty of time to prepare, and Nazir pays half the fee upfront, with the other half to be collected upon completion of services rendered. He suspects Azarath might be gouging him on the price, but as with all things, you get what you pay for. So he pays, and pays well, and Azarath hefts the purse, testing its weight before he nods. He’ll come to Whiterun in less than a season, bringing his tools and his warm, clever fingers and his biting words on scraps of parchment that he burns away as soon as he’s done with them. He’ll treat it like any other job, most likely, unimpressed by the trappings of the Sanctum or their games. Nazir finds that he’s looking forward to it. He leaves Azarath be, but not before slipping a note onto his workstation where he won’t discover it until later, wrapped around one of his quills.

_Pleasure doing business with you._

He makes it back to Whiterun on Turdas, and Ingun accosts him as soon as he turns up at the Sanctum the following day, demanding to know where he’s been. She demands many things, Ingun – time, attention, agony, fulfillment – testing her boundaries with her guildmates in a way she never can under her mother’s thumb. But as much as Maven’s hands have shaped her, there are parts of her they have yet to touch. She’s curious and clever, a dreamer at her core, and beneath her spoiled demeanor she’s learning to express things like gratitude, now that Nazir and Astrid have taken her under their collective wing. She insists on expressing that gratitude when he tells her the news, thoroughly and with intent, and it’s an exhausted Nazir that emerges from the depths of the Sanctum that night, starving but otherwise sated. Everyone else is either asleep or occupied, save Drevis, who’s waiting up in the kitchen with a plate of fried yams and horker meat. He passes it to Nazir when he comes staggering in, along with a goblet of water and a knowing smile.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” Nazir says, brushing his lips against Drevis’s cheek before he sits. Drevis chuckles.

“How else would you know that I missed you?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’d figure it out eventually.”

He eats while they sit in comfortable silence, Drevis’s knee nudging against his under the table, thin fingers flipping idly through the book in front of him. When Nazir’s done, he clears his throat. Drevis glances up.

“Hm?”

“I found an artist for Ingun.”

Drevis’s eyes gleam. “So I gathered.”

“He’s Dunmer,” Nazir says, ignoring him. “Deaf. His sister usually translates for him, but he can read lips.” _Signing’s easier,_ his mental image of Azarath reminds him, peevish. “What do you know about signing?”

“Unspoken Dunmeris?” Drevis taps his chin, considering. “Enough to hold a conversation, I suppose. It’s been years since I needed to use it.”

“Is it common, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Drevis says, more enthusiastic now. “It’s not as well-known outside the mainland, but a great deal of us are either born deaf, or lose our hearing later in life. Something to do with the shape of our ears, or so I’m told. So, yes, most of us know at least a little bit. Altmer and Bosmer have their own Unspoken languages as well, though unfortunately I’m not familiar with those – “

“One thing at a time, Professor,” Nazir reminds him, and Drevis lets out a little ‘hmph’ and closes his book, even though his eyes are smiling.

“Very well. Why do you want to know?”

 _They bored me,_ Azarath’s eyes say in the back of his head. _Don’t you dare bore me, too._

Nazir puts his hand over Drevis’s and smiles.

“I was hoping you could teach me.”


	3. A Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags/warnings are in the end notes.

It’s a long month. Nazir keeps busy for most of it. Between managing contracts, planning Ingun’s celebration with Astrid, and learning whatever sign language Drevis can teach him, he has little time to dwell on Azarath’s impending visit. Not that it doesn’t cross his mind. By the time Rain’s Hand comes to a close, he has the basics down – nothing fancy, but enough to hold a conversation – and is learning more by the day. Will Azarath be surprised? Impressed that he rose to the challenge? Or will it not make a difference to him in the least?

“It’s not like you to go out of your way for a stranger,” Ingun remarks during one session. She’s leaning on the table with her chin in her hands, watching Nazir and Drevis practice having a conversation about weaponry.

“I’d like to ensure he does a good job,” Nazir says, twining his fingers around the word for _cut_. “A little flattery goes a long way.” Ingun and Drevis exchange amused glances.

“Well,” Drevis says. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“As am I.” Ingun bares her teeth. “Obviously.”

They aren’t the only ones. The closer the date draws, the louder the buzz of excitement filling the Sanctum becomes when they’re all together. Everyone is intrigued by the idea of a guild dedicated to body modification, enough so that Nazir’s overhead at least three separate conversations about wanting to experience it for themselves. He can’t say he hasn’t considered it – a working relationship between their organizations could prove beneficial for both parties. But he’s a patient man, and they still need to see how Azarath’s visit goes. There will be time for the rest later on.

Azarath arrives the first week of Second Seed by carriage, the weather sunny and blessedly mild. He looks, if possible, even more irritated than the last time they’d seen each other, but Nazir doesn’t take it personally; two weeks of non-stop travel is enough to make anyone disagreeable. He cocks his head at Nazir as he climbs off the wagon, bags in hand and brow furrowed. Nazir doesn’t bother to hide his smirk.

_Good to see you again._

Azarath’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. To his credit, he recovers quickly.

_Don’t look so smug._

But he looks pleased all the same, jewel-bright eyes glowing in the sun, and Nazir decides that his efforts were worthwhile after all. He offers to carry Azarath’s bags, and is shrugged off – there are only two, a leather satchel and a roll of hide lashed closed at both ends. He prefers to travel light, he explains.

 _We meet on Fredas,_ Nazir signs when he lets them both back inside, the Sanctum’s interior quiet and still. It’s Middas. _Everyone is looking forward to it._ Azarath doesn’t respond at first, taking in his surroundings, but after a moment he sets his bags down.

_Where’s the privy?_

At least, that’s what Nazir thinks he says. He’s not entirely fluent yet. He takes Azarath down to the lower level, where he’d already taken the liberty of drawing a bath and laying out supplies – a towel, a razor, vials of herbs and salts and fragrant cakes of soap to scrub the remainder of the road away. All part of being a gracious host, he’d said, but really he’s just decided that he likes catching Azarath off-guard. _Take your time,_ he says, and Azarath waves him off, but not so quickly that Nazir can’t see the thoughtful look on his face when he touches one of the little lavender soaps.

He does, in fact, take his time. Nazir scrounges up some bread and cheese with salted meat while he waits, along with a half-full bottle of wine. It’s not much, but enough to offer a guest without seeming stingy. Ysolda is in charge of replenishing the Sanctum’s stores, and he’s in the middle of writing her a purchase list when Azarath reappears, damp and floral with his hair loose around his shoulders. He appears to be in a much better mood than he was upon his arrival, and they eat in companionable silence while Nazir finishes up. He’s double-checking it when Azarath taps his elbow.

_Are you going to show me around?_

“You want a tour,” Nazir says, surprised. Azarath shrugs.

_Tired of sitting._

“As good a reason as any,” Nazir agrees, and signs _Follow me._

There’s nothing much of interest upstairs, so they head down, into the beating heart of the Sanctum. It had once boasted a brewery, but that was gone now, all available space cleared of vats and casks and rebuilt into something much more intriguing. The biggest room now housed the play space, while the others had been transformed into oases for bathing and rest. Nazir lets him into the dungeon and watches him wander around, poking at the equipment.

_All of this is for…_

_Play._

Azarath smirks. _Sex._

 _Most of the time. Not always._ The table near the door holds all his favorite implements on their display rack – the canes, the floggers, the strap and the paddle. Nazir runs his fingers along the handle of the nearest one. “Sometimes the act is its own reward.”

Azarath’s gaze drifts across the room. He points.

_What’s that?_

“Spanking bench,” Nazir says, and signs _tie you up,_ followed by _strike,_ followed by _pleasure._ “Let me know if you’d like a demonstration.”

He’s mostly joking, and isn’t surprised to see Azarath shake his head. He mouths the next few words as he signs them, slow and deliberate, like he wants to be sure Nazir understands what he’s saying. _Nobody ties me up._

“But spanking’s not out of the question.”

Azarath’s eyes glitter. _Maybe. Maybe not._ He’d brought the rolled-up hide with him, slung across his shoulder, and he spreads it open on the table with a flick of his wrist, revealing a wicked array of tool, each one made of cold, polished steel. Nazir’s mouth waters. Azarath runs his thumb down the blade of the longest one, testing it, then glances back at Nazir with a little half-smile. _One thing at a time._

 _Business before pleasure,_ Nazir agrees.

 _Reminds me._ Azarath motions upstairs. _The design is finished._

 _Perfect._ “My colleague Astrid is arriving tomorrow. You can show us while we hammer out the final details.” It’s oddly frustrating, not being able to sign everything. He’s not used to having so much difficulty expressing himself. He lowers his hands, and that unreadable expression flickers across Azarath’s face again.

 _Keep going,_ he signs, followed by something else. Nazir recognizes the sign for ‘teach’.

_Teach me?_

Azarath nods. His lips twitch. _Costs extra._

Nazir chuckles. “I would expect nothing less.”

 

The room is red. The color of passion and blood, a warning color, from the cushions to the curtains to the paint on the walls. The lanterns flicker in their corners, shadows lapping at the floor in smooth black waves.

“Hello, pet. Did you miss us?”

Ingun squirms on the cold stone floor, hands bound behind her back. A hood covers her from collar to crown, cinched at the neck to keep it from coming loose. They stand in a half-moon around her, the four of them, with Astrid in its center. The toe of one boot taps on the floor, one, two, three beats, a hair’s breadth from Ingun’s knee. She doesn’t answer, and Astrid crouches down so their faces nearly touch.

“We missed you,” she purrs. “In fact, we missed you so much, we decided to give you a gift.” Ingun’s head jerks up, flinching away when Astrid’s hand seeks out her face. Astrid tuts, and a muffled cry comes from beneath the hood when she grabs Ingun by the front of her nightgown and drags her forward, up onto her knees. “Now, now, none of that. Otherwise I might start to think you’re ungrateful, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Ingun shakes her head, and Astrid lets go, waving her hand carelessly. “Bring her.”

Ingun is light, and even though she fights it, there’s not much she can do to stop Nazir and Drevis from lifting her bodily and carrying her to the padded table in the center of the room, its shackles open and waiting. It always amazes Nazir, how light she is. It belies how much punishment she can take. They’d already done this scene once, after all, and she’d lapped it up and come back for more. She hisses while they bolt her at the wrists and ankles, body writhing, and then Vex yanks her hood off and leaves her flushed and blinking. Her eyes widen as Azarath moves into view. He’s wearing a leather apron and gloves, and he looks her over dispassionately as he unravels his bundle of tools, steel rippling blue in the firelight. Astrid slaps her thigh with the flat of a dagger, making her jump. Ingun’s eyes dart between them like a cornered rat.

“What…” Her voice gives. She licks her lips. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I told you.” The tip of the dagger catches on the nightgown, and with a flick of Astrid’s wrist, the fabric splits. The dagger vanishes. Astrid rips the skirt wide open, baring Ingun’s left side from ankle to hip while she cowers in her bonds. “We’re giving you a gift. A little something from the Brotherhood to our favorite fucktoy.”

“Please,” Ingun says, cheeks flushed. Her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. “Don’t do this.” Astrid ignores her, moving aside so Azarath can situate himself at the table, all his supplies gathered on a silver tray, and Ingun’s voice rises in pitch, growing more frantic. “You can’t do this. Please, you _can’t_ – “

  
“Oh, I think you’ll find we can do whatever we want, sweetheart,” Vex says, and her nails dig into the delicate juncture between Ingun’s hip and thigh, silencing her.

Azarath ignores them all. He’d requested a stool be brought down from the bar, and he settles onto it now, the tray at his elbow. When he dabs at Ingun’s skin with the alcohol-soaked cloth, she jumps – cold, Nazir imagines. Astrid smacks her thigh again, harder this time.

“Don’t move.” The warning freezes Ingun in place, pulse flickering visibly in her pale throat. “You don’t want to mess up his handiwork, do you? Otherwise we’ll have to heal you up and start over.”

Ingun’s voice is very small. “Don’t.”

Astrid reaches out, strokes her hair. “It’s already done,” she says.

Azarath finishes wiping her thigh down, then applies the design, leaving a faint outline on her damp skin. Ingun’s nostrils flare when he reaches for his scalpel, biting her lip so hard it looks like she might draw blood, but she holds still. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t cry out. Even when the blade first bites into her skin.

The design they’d commissioned isn’t small – it climbs Ingun’s hip and spills down the front of her thigh, ending just above her knee. Azarath’s blade shimmers, and flowers bloom bloody on her skin. Ingun holds still, but Nazir can already see her going sallow, sweat beading above her lip while her eyes glaze over. He rubs her outstretched arm, a comforting gesture disguised as a possessive caress while Astrid pets her hair and Vex puts a steadying hand on her unoccupied hip. Drevis has been silent this whole time, gone invisible as soon as the proceedings began, but Nazir can tell when he starts touching her – the buttons on her nightgown unfasten themselves, and Ingun gasps as invisible hands push the fabric aside and cup her breasts, pinching lightly at her nipples.

“You would get off on this,” Vex says, equal parts affectionate and condescending. “I bet you’re dripping wet right now.” Ingun lets out a whimper of protest. “Should we check?”

“You know the rules. No making her move.” Astrid’s eyes gleam, fingers tightening cruelly in Ingun’s hair. “We want her to be perfect, don’t we?”

“We do,” Nazir says, running his nails along the soft skin of her inner arm. “And she wants to be perfect for us, too. Don’t you, girl?”

“Nn – “ The word catches in Ingun’s throat when Drevis does something to her nipples that makes her tense up, eyelids fluttering. Nazir chuckles.

“That’s what I thought.”

Azarath ignores them, head bent to his task. Nazir wonders if he knows what they’re saying, or if he even cares – somehow, he doubts it. Those blunt grey fingers don’t seem like they should be capable of such delicacy or precision, but Azarath wields his scalpel with such grace that Nazir finds it hard to look away. The shadows stretch long while he works, and Ingun drifts on a sea of mingled pleasure and pain, sweat beading on her skin. Nazir can see it in her glassy eyes, her parted lips and the shallow rise and fall of her chest. The pile of blood-smeared linens by Azarath’s elbow grows as he wipes the outline and deftly removes the excess skin, cut by tiny cut. Ingun whimpers again, head lolling against the table.

“Almost done,” Astrid murmurs, cradling Ingun’s face in her hands. “I knew we made the right choice, keeping you.”

Ingun makes an incoherent noise, pained and blissful all at once. Azarath sits back and blots his forehead with his sleeve, laying his scalpel back on the tray. _Done,_ he signs to Nazir.

It takes him a moment to clean away the blood so the design is legible, rinsing it gently with lukewarm water and wiping the skin with a damp cloth. Nightshade and deathbell climb the side of Ingun’s thigh all the way to her hip, intricate leaves and vines curling across her skin like a living thing. Eventually it will scar and fade into a discreet decoration, but right now it stands out in stark relief, scarlet against her pale skin. Azarath finishes cleaning the wounds and bandages them, wrapping Ingun’s leg from hip to knee in gauze and linen, and Nazir quietly admires it until it’s out of sight.

“Good girl,” Astrid murmurs in the background, lips pressed to Ingun’s forehead. “You did well.” Ingun’s lips move, but no sound comes out. She reaches for them without seeing, her dark eyes unfocused, and they meet her halfway. For a moment, no one moves. They all simply hold onto her, letting her breathe while Astrid whispers soothing words in her ear until she shudders and slumps back on the table, muscles going limp. Nazir looks at Azarath, who nods.

 _Watch the leg,_ he signs.

“Come on,” Nazir says, and scoops Ingun up off the table, mindful of her thigh. She feels heavier now, her body pliant when she curls against him, burying her face in his shoulder. He chuckles. “Let’s get you to bed, hm?”

“Yes, sir,” Ingun mumbles into the fabric.

Ysolda, Nadine, and Gwilin are waiting in the bedroom down the hall with concerned expressions, fruit and water at the ready on a serving tray. Ingun’s in good hands with them, and Nazir is content to leave her with them while she recovers – he can already see her falling asleep in the plush comforter, the three of them stroking her hair and fussing over her like a trio of mother hens. He kisses her cheek and departs with Drevis, Astrid and Vex lingering behind. Astrid has a soft spot for Ingun, Nazir has come to realize; wants her for a protégé, though she knows what crossing Maven would mean as well as he does. Then again, if she knew what they got up to with her daughter on a regular basis…

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Drevis says, nudging him. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing important, I assure you.” He meets Drevis’s skeptical look with a smile. “I’ll meet you upstairs. I have some unfinished business to see to.”

“I’m sure,” Drevis says dryly.

Azarath is still in the dungeon, finishing up. He’s remarkably efficient – if not for the linens and the basin of filthy water where he’d cleaned his tools, the play space looks untouched. Nazir moves into his line of sight, giving him plenty of time to notice that he’s no longer alone.

 _Thank you,_ he signs, and Azarath shrugs, stops what he’s doing long enough to reply.

_Welcome._

“Will you do a second one?”

_When?_

_Right now,_ Nazir signs, and Azarath’s hands still.

_For you?_

_Yes._ “I’ll double your fee.”

Azarath nods after a moment, a strange look on his face. _What do you want?_

“You choose,” Nazir says. “Design something for me.”

Azarath’s lips twitch. He tucks an errant lock of hair behind his ear. _Dangerous._

Nazir agrees.

 

The design itself is what surprises Nazir the most – a symbol he doesn’t recognize, but one Azarath claims to stand for protection. _A sigil,_ he explains after he draws it on Nazir’s chest, over his heart. _To ward against those who would do you harm._

“My, my,” Nazir says, prodding at its smooth edge. “I’m starting to think I’m growing on you.”

Azarath practically throws the note at him. _It makes sense given your line of work. Shut up and let me concentrate._

Even his handwriting looks flustered. Nazir crumples the parchment in his fist, grinning. He stays quiet after that.

It hurts, but he’s had far worse, and Azarath works quickly, no cut or motion wasted. Nazir breathes in the spaces around the pain until it becomes little more than a dull burn, each stroke bleeding into the next; when it’s done, he bears a new wound, one that will scar far more beautifully than any other he’s been given. He floats pleasantly on the aftershocks while Azarath cleans away the blood and bandages it with clean linens and gauze, warm and relaxed with the stone wall cool at his back. Pain heightens everything and makes it soft around the edges at the same time, does him better than drink or drug ever will. Azarath’s lashes fan across his cheekbones when he lowers his head to check his work, his clever hands smoothing over Nazir’s shoulders. Nazir wants to bite him.

 _You do good work,_ he signs instead.

 _I know._ Azarath sets the linens aside, strips off his gloves. He’s standing between Nazir’s spread legs, knees slouched on either side of his hips, and when he shifts closer it puts him within kissing distance. He’s staring at Nazir’s mouth, eyes heavy-lidded. _I have other talents, as well._

It’s so obviously brazen that Nazir has to laugh. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

 _Business before pleasure. Business is done._ Azarath undoes the ties on Nazir’s trousers, slowly, like he’s daring Nazir to stop him. Nazir angles his hips to give him better access instead, and Azarath smirks. _Now, pleasure,_ he signs, and slips his hand inside.

There’s not much to talk about, after that. Azarath strokes him with a practiced grip, his lips pressed to Nazir’s throat like he can taste every ragged breath while Nazir does the same to him, their hands moving in tandem. A groan catches on Nazir’s teeth when Azarath’s free hand slips down to cradle his balls, callused fingers warm. All of him is warm, like fire pulses just beneath his skin, his cock hot and throbbing against Nazir’s palm in time with his heartbeat. It’s oddly alluring. Nazir rubs the pad of his thumb against the slick head, dipping just inside his foreskin where the flesh is wet and sensitive; he feels more than hears the sound that builds in Azarath’s chest in response, a slow, heated rumble as his hips buck into Nazir’s hand. He mouths something against Nazir’s skin.

“Come on, then,” Nazir says, even though he knows Azarath can’t hear him. Maybe it’s enough that he can feel it where their bodies touch. “Come on,” and then Azarath’s teeth sink into his neck, mouth closing over his jugular in a bruising grip as his grip tightens, hand quickening. It hurts the same way his new markings hurt, the same dull ache spreading through him like a heatwave, and Nazir’s orgasm hits without warning. He comes with a growl, spattering Azarath’s knuckles and wrist pearly-white. Azarath keeps stroking him, teeth pressed into the side of his neck until Nazir knocks his hand away, signaling for him to stop. He relents, flushed and smug, but only until Nazir grabs a handful of his arse and pulls him closer; a firm nibble to the tip of his ear is enough to melt him, folding into Nazir’s arms with his eyes fluttering shut.

“You elves and your ears,” Nazir murmurs, and bites the lobe. Azarath’s fingers tighten on his biceps, the skin there already tacky with sweat and spend. He comes a few minutes later, panting hard as Nazir wrings his orgasm from him, teeth and tongue working the length of his ear. Then there’s nothing but the two of them, mired in silence as they lean into one another, collecting themselves. Nazir has always valued silence. He closes his eyes and presses his cheek against Azarath’s temple, breathing it in.

Eventually, however, they’re forced to disentangle themselves and get cleaned up, and Nazir checks that his bandages are still dry while Azarath wrings out the wet cloths and drapes them back over the basin. He moves like he’s just been fucked, languid and satisfied. Nazir watches the curve of his spine, the easy sway of his hips; at his age, there’s no chance of him getting hard again this quickly, but he still entertains the thought of bending Azarath over the table and sinking into the plush swell of his arse, gripping his hips and thighs so hard it leaves bruises for days to come. He’s always been fond of giving his lovers something to remember him by.

 _When do you leave?_ He signs when Azarath turns back around.

 _Tomorrow. Need to get back._ Red eyes look him over, speculative. _Will you come to Solitude again?_

 _Maybe._ “If I have reason.” He slides off the table, stretching his cramped limbs. _Why? You want to see me again?_

He’s mostly joking. Now that their business is concluded in both pleasure and pain, he has no idea what Azarath’s intentions are, let alone if they go beyond tonight, and he’s never been one to dwell. If it’s meant to be one night, it’s a night he doesn’t regret. But Azarath glowers at him instead, and in three long strides he’s crossed the room to plant himself in front of Nazir again, exasperation warring with something softer on his face.

 _Annoying,_ he signs, and then something else that Nazir doesn’t know, aside from _want._ When comprehension refuses to dawn, he sighs, and then his arms slide around Nazir’s neck, tugging him down into a kiss. It’s not the best kiss Nazir’s ever had – they don’t know how their mouths fit together yet, their teeth bumping when Azarath surges up to meet him, but it doesn’t matter. Not when Azarath’s lips are soft and warm, and he’s tracing an answer into the palm of Nazir’s hand with his finger, one that leaves no room for misunderstanding.

_Yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Tags: Scarification, some mentions of blood, masochism, hints of consensual non-consent in the first scene, hand jobs in the second.
> 
> The scene with Ingun alludes to a one-shot written by raunchyandpaunchy that is set before this, titled "Dying For It". You don't have to read that to understand what's going on here, but it does provide more context.

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing too explicit in this chapter. Non-graphic depiction of murder.


End file.
